What the hell?
“Hey, sis. Since I didn’t get your good news until after I-85 stole the better part of my evening, I stopped by the Circle K on my way here and splurged on a bottle of their finest”—she paused as her gaze landed on Beau—“which we can split three ways.” Deep blue eyes looked him up and down. “OooorI could leave the wine and go get a bite to eat. The Waffle House on the corner stays open all night, right?”
“Shut up and get in here.” Savannah made a move to grab the handle of Sinclair’s bag with her good hand, but he crossed the room and shooed her away.
“I’ve got it.” He hefted the luggage and placed it inside thedoor. “You moving in, Sinclair?”
“For one night. I’ve got an early flight out of Hartsfield-Jackson tomorrow morning. Savannah offered up half her Serta so I didn’t have to wake up at the crack of dawn and make the drive.”
So much for his prurient fantasies involving Savannah and her Serta. A brick of disappointment settled in his gut—or thereabouts—even though it was for the best. The “no complications” pledge remained in full force and effect. Getting physically involved with a woman who planned to dump him come the first of the year invited unnecessary tension into an already-tricky situation. The comparatively straightforward situation in his jeans persisted, but he had plenty of experience resolving that on his own. He eyed the bottle of wine in Sinclair’s hand. “What are we celebrating?”
“Some fiancé you are. You don’t even know your future wife got an offer to participate in a special exhibit at the Mercer Gallery?”
No, he didn’t, and that probably seemed kind of odd. He glanced at Savannah. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks, but you can stop racking your brain for a way to explain why you weren’t the first to get the news. Sinclair’s messing with you. She knows we’re not really engaged. I told her last week because I didn’t want her wasting time designing rings for us.”
“Oh.” Could Sinclair keep a secret?
Sinclair patted his arm as she walked past him on her way to the kitchen. “Don’t worry. My lips are sealed.” She put the wine on the counter and dug around in a drawer for a corkscrew.
Savannah went to the table and took a seat. He picked up the bag of blueberries and settled it across her knuckles. She gave him an exasperated look but left them there.
Sinclair brought the bottle, the corkscrew, and three glasses to the table. He commandeered the corkscrew and did the honors while Sinclair fussed over Savannah’s hand.
“Dang, girl. You really nailed him, didn’t you? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. The paramedic who rushed to my rescue assured me nothing’s broken, which is good because I’ve got a load of work to do between now and New Year’s Eve.”
He poured a glass of wine and pushed it to Savannah. “What happens New Year’s Eve?”
“The Mercer hosts a series of showcases, kicking off on New Year’s Eve. They spotlight artists to watch in the coming year, invite their best clients, curators from major museums, and buyers for private collections. After my gallery folded, I approached Mercer and had a really good meeting with the director. She felt me out about participating in a showcase, but mentioned they’d already finalized their featured artists for New Year’s. This week a mixed-media artist they originally selected withdrew for personal reasons. They called me. I’m in.”
Sinclair accepted the glass of wine he slid toward her and high-fived Savannah. “I told you they’d call. Which of your works are you going to exhibit?”
“Well, there’s the thing. I have three large pieces I managed to get back from my old gallery before the Feds closed them down, but Mercer wants more—the manager told me the commission agreement they’re sending will specify five additional works. Smaller scale, thank God, because I can create those mostly on my own, but I’ve got four weeks to work my magic. I’m going to be busy.”
“Here’s to busy.” Sinclair raised her glass and tapped it to Savannah’s. Beau poured a splash of wine into the third glass and did the same. Then he took a sip and immediately wished for a beer. Which he had, waiting for him across the hall in the bag of groceries he’d yet to put away. Time to head out.
He pushed the cork into the bottle and placed it in the middle of the table. “My work here is done. Sinclair, have a good flight.” And then, to Savannah, he said, “Keep the ice on for another tenminutes, then take a break, then ice it for another ten before you go to bed.”
“I will. Thanks for everything. Sorry for dragging you into my drama.”
He shrugged off the apology and crossed to the door. Compared to the dramas he confronted on the job, hers barely fit the definition, but he was happy enough not to transport anybody to the ER—particularly her. “Being engaged to a paramedic comes with certain fringe benefits.”
The comment earned him a smile, but then her eyes widened and she jumped up. “Speaking of which, being engaged to a glass artist comes with certain benefits, too. Hold on a minute.”
He waited by the door while she ran to her bedroom, and returned in the promised minute carrying a package about the size of a shoe box. She handed it to him. “What’s this?”
“Happy birthday.”
Oh, right. The birthday present. The package suddenly felt much heavier in his hands. The idea of putting some colorful, breakable memento in his apartment tensed him up. He turned the box in his hands, looking for the easiest way to unwrap it. “Thanks.”
Her laugh told him he failed at hiding his reservations about the gift. “I packed it pretty well. Open it at your place. But don’t worry. It’s small and unobtrusive, just like we discussed.” She fiddled with his hair as she spoke, brushing it back from his forehead, and then his temples. Maybe he’d hold off on a trim.
“Okay.” He opened the door and paused at the threshold. “See you later.”
“No kiss goodnight?” Sinclair stared at the two of them expectantly.